


Choices of an Empty Hospital Room

by CriticalDoodle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I apologize but at the same time, It's been on my docs for too long, Other, This needed to be said
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-12-30 06:41:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18310241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CriticalDoodle/pseuds/CriticalDoodle
Summary: In a empty hospital room, there's nothing else to do but remember and choose.





	1. Shock the system, my dear, and leave me loved

**Author's Note:**

> [The first stage of grief out of seven]
> 
> Georgie Baker - Shock

_“Hello?”_

It’s a simple word.

A two syllable, sometimes one, word rushed between chattering teeth as it gets dragged under the squeaks of gurneys, shouts of nurses and doctors alike, and the occasional scream from patients begging for something more, something stronger, anything to numb the pain of flesh burning and contouring like hot wax in ones hands. Standing in the middle of the frenzied hospital hallway, dressed in grey sweatpants and a loose fitting _What the Ghost_ shirt, hair pinned to the side haphazardly, and a phone dangling from her fingertips; there wasn’t much else for Georgie Baker to say.

_“Hello?”_

The word drowned under the fluorescent lights.

Or, was that her? 

Georgie wasn’t quite sure anymore.

_“Hello? Ma’am?”_

The fluorescent hum trickled over every inch of her skin in that familiar, sickly pale shade of white. Bruises under her eyes, streaked mascara across her cheeks, an ashen expression that her face twisted into; almost everything was exaggerated in that damn light. It’s too bright, she thought idly while scratching at her throat. There’s something wrong with it - a stone lodged that blocked her airway and caused each breath to shudder out and constrict her chest almost painfully. She hardly registered her hand hesitantly reaching up to massage the stone away and barely blinked when she pulled back her hand, the light dancing on droplets of blood that coated her nails. There’s a sharp pain, slight and prickly, and then suddenly Georgie Baker was no longer standing in the middle of the hospital hallways.

She’s on her knees.

Phone dropped and scattered across the tile flooring, both hands clawing at her throat, body convulsing as her mind gradually caught up - there was no air. There’s air all around her, oxygen after all is very easy to come across, and yet she couldn’t breathe. There’s no air in her lungs but a heat that suffocated her as someone around let out a gross sob. There’s no air as her mind wandered further off, ignoring the way her body shrieked and begged and groaned for a single breath, and the floor beneath her trembled as another sob escaped. She couldn’t tell who was crying only that it physically hurt to hear. There were words in-between the wails, the pounding, the scratching, there were words that Georgie couldn’t register for the life of her. There’s no air and all Georgie could think about was that sobbing.

Faintly, she felt additional hands of people, nurses, things grabbing at her shoulders and attempting to steady her. How could they stand while the ground shattered beneath them under the weight of those cries? She tried resisting; pulled against the grasping nails, curled further into herself, brushed past the fire licking her throat, and then, something stabbed her.

Georgie forced herself to look up, uncurl enough to see, and then her eyes drooped. In the glow of the fluorescent lights was a needle and the concerned faces of nurses she had never met before.

And silence, she dimly realized as the sedative took.

And silence.

 

 

 

**_She met Jonathan Sims at University on accident, really._ **

 

 

 

_The lecture hall is utterly empty and Georgie is two seconds away from turning on her heel and leaving._

_Historical Approaches and Ethics Forgotten is a course she dreads the moment she reads the title, memorizes the room number, and crumbles up the slip of paper. The admissions staff are bittersweet as they welcomed her from her supposed gap year with tense smiles and schedule changes. Textbooks are thrown into her hands, kind words are chewed out and spat at her feet, and she’s left in an empty lecture hall with nowhere else to be for the next two hours._

_In all honesty, leaving feels like an appropriate response._

_That is, until her eyes stumble upon a single guy in the front row of the room. There are fifty-two rows each containing roughly ten seats and there, in the very front and center, is a lanky guy hunched over what appeared to be a withered copy of some old book. She isn’t quite sure when her legs start pushing her forward, down the set of stairs, but she is incredibly aware of the silence of the room as she approaches the guy. There’s hardly any noise besides a faint sigh or crinkle of paper._

_He’s young, she thinks as she grows closer, young and small. Hunched over the table in front of him, shoulders brought close to his chest, and chin firmly tucked in, he seemed so tiny in comparison to that vast, empty room. Though, as she managed down the final step, he shifted. His head jerked up at the noise and his shoulder rolled back now showing a rather tall and lanky individual, still young, but not so small anymore._

_“You’re new,” The guy says slowly. His head tips towards her and his eyes pass over, never actually settling on her but rather the textbooks she cradled in her arms. “Those aren’t necessary.”_

_“Excuse me?”_

_“Those aren’t necessary.” He repeats pointedly. When she gives him a look, he blinks and Georgie becomes acutely aware of how his head tilts, ever to the left, as he considers the implied question. “The professor isn’t a fan of the required materials. Finds that history shouldn’t be taught from mandatory textbooks but through individual research and interviews of the dead and or dying.”_

_“Interviews of the dead and dying,” Georgie echoes, dropping the textbooks on the next available seat. “Sounds interesting, where do we begin?”_

_“And or. I said and or.”_

_“Too late, already got my spirit board I’m afraid.”_

_“That’s not…” The guy huffs, closes his book, and juts out his hand. Never once managing to turn and look her in the eyes. “Jonathan Sims.”_

_“Georgie Baker,” She reaches out, shaking his hand a little harder than needed, before adding, “So, where is the professor anyways?”_

_A pause._

_“Oh shit-“_

 

 

 

The sedative worked wonders but Georgie had never been one to rest peacefully.

Nurses, two of them, each took an arm and helped her to her feet. Their features were hard to distinguish, voices coming in and out, but Georgie hardly cared as her head lulled from side to side. She was placed into a plastic chair and sat upright as one nurse darted off, the other running through tests that she slowly blinked at. The burning at the back of her throat was faded but her thoughts dripped through as her eyes focused beyond the nurse, where her phone laid.

It was difficult to move her arm and gesture, but the lovely nurse understood it anyway.

 

 

 

**_There wasn’t much of a friendship at first - purely beneficial._ **

 

 

 

_Georgie isn’t quite sure when she first invites Jonathan Sims to her apartment._

_Returning to the University didn’t sit right with her, not at first. Alex was gone - erased, dead, worse - and that felt odd. She’d expected the loudness of her previous friend, the bravery, the lack of restraint, and when returning to her cramped apartment near the edge of the University, well, she found that she missed her. It’s difficult to put into words though as ‘missed’ didn’t feel like sadness or anger. It didn’t feel like anything. The only indicator that she missed Alex came from when she would make two cups of tea at night during the midst of a study session, turning around to hand the hotter of the two over, just to be welcomed by silence and burnt fingertips. A reminder that arose when she woke up at night clutching her bedsheets and scanning her room for that familiar form of a friend who never slept and instead curled up in the corner with a textbook and pen, giving a sharp wave as she chirped out a good morning, and finding nothing but darkness. A sensation of warmth removed from her hands and her hips and her face that Georgie couldn’t replicate alone._

_She isn’t sure when she first invites Jonathan Sims over but she does not regret it._

_Georgie’s apartment is small. A tight, cramped space that has a barely functional kitchen and bathroom with a narrow hallway to connect the two to a bedroom she deemed more of a walk-in closet than anything else. There’s little else between high ceilings and stained tile though she’s proud to say that she can afford the apartment space between shifts at the local library and hours spent at the University Center. Perhaps as she sits on top of the kitchen counter waiting for him to arrive, can she admit there’s nervousness in her actions. A slight tremble to her fingers as she picks at a biscuit. The old Georgie would’ve been on her tiptoes, darting between each section of the room with a broom in hand and a cloth in the other, eyes drawn in anticipation and determination to make her apartment appear more. However, the old Georgie has faded and the new can only sit on a countertop and wonder when he’ll arrive._

_When he knocks on the door, it’s a ginger knock that makes her fingers still. She jumps off the counter, lands gracefully, and opens the door to see Jonathan balancing take-away food and textbooks with ease, his eyes reading over the receipt and eyebrows pitched. He barely looks up as he slides past her to set the food down and as she closes the door, she turns to him pulling out plates and glasses from the cabinets with ease that she would never have expected from him. Then, as he pulls a chair for her to sit, does he look up with a strange gleam in his eyes._

_“So why Hungarian food exactly?”_

_She huffs out a laugh and joins him, reaching for the bag and grabbing as much as she possibly could._

_“Oh, shut up.”_

 

 

 

Georgie watched as the nurse left her side.

Their - _no_ \- his movements were gradual and purposeful. Shoulders rolled back, stance relaxed, the nurse meant to put her mind at ease and beyond the initial dose of the sedative, it did little but add to her annoyance. When he returned, Georgie leaned forward and nearly toppled out of the seat to see. The phone’s screen was cracked, go figure, and she stared blankly at what it showed.

A message from hours before was still there, hovering over a picture of herself and the Admiral, and the nurse read it carefully.

“Oh,” There was a pinched expression of his face as his eyes read the text over and over again.

Then, realization. 

 

 

 

**_She doesn’t even remember when Jonathan became Jon._ **

 

 

 

_“You’re almost there,” Jonathan mumbles over his shoulder, casting another look towards their shared textbook. Advanced Statistics, or as Georgie loved to call it, the death of all hopes and dreams. She’s hunched over the damned thing, pencil twirling between nimble fingers, and eyes going cross as the numbers merge, twist, and warp themselves into newer equations. Her reading glasses are somewhere else - tossed away in a fit of frustration - and the only thing keeping her sane is the radio he brought over. There’s an instrumental of some old song that he hums off-key and its a tune she knows by heart. Though, she isn’t quite sure when Jonathan pulls up a chair next to her and leans in, plucking the pencil right out of her hand to underline a formula on the other page. “This is the formula you should be trying out.”_

_“I’ve tried using it four fucking times already,” She hisses back at his lax tone, grabbing for her pencil. He shakes his head and with a sudden smile, raises it above her head. “Jonathan Sims, I swear to any and every god, if you don’t give me back my pencil-“  
_

_“Try it.”_

_“Give it.”_

_“If you try it.”_

_“Jonathan!”_

_He shakes his head again but dutifully lowers the pencil. Again, she reaches but he pulls it back, instead motioning towards a spare sheet of paper. Georgie slides one over with a grumble as she watches him begin to outline the steps of the equation. Each step written down in its entirety with no shortcuts or abbreviations, just every step written in fine enough detail to be considered a lesson of its own._

_“The issue with the equation you’re using is that it doesn’t cover an interval. You’re solving for the sample’s mean however the question wants to know the interval which contains the true mean with a confidence level of ninety-five percent. So, before you use the equation itself, you have to find the critical z-value. Which has the equation that’s right…here. Makes sense, yeah?”_

_A pause._

_Some scribbles._

_“Wait.” The anger’s gone within a second. “How did you, that doesn’t, whoa okay. Okay, yeah, no, that makes total sense.”_

_Jon laughs and for the briefest moment, Georgie looks up at him._

_Light from the window seems to drape over him and her breath catches - square glasses pushed up from his forehead, cheeks flushed, eyes crinkled shut, wheezing laughter - and Georgie makes a decision._

_“Hey, Jon?” She asks and his eyes flutter open as she reaches for his collar. “Kiss me?”_

_He rolls his eyes, cups her face, and for a second everything feels right._

 

 

 

“We don’t have all of the information right now, Miss Baker, but I assure you we will do everything in our power and if there are any available updates, I”ll let you know.”

“Okay, yeah, thank you.”

“Though, he listed you as his emergency number, and.”

“Yeah?”

“Well, when I looked through his file, there were no other numbers listed.”

“I know.”

“I know this will be hard to hear but I think if you know any family members and their contact information, I would like to have them brought here as soon as possible. The situation, it, it doesn’t look favorable.”

“I…there isn’t.”

“What was that?”

“…There isn’t anyone else. It’s just me.”

“Oh, I see.”

“…”

“Please follow me then, we have a lot to discuss.”

 

 

 

**_She does remember Jon though._ **

 

 

 

_A walk-in closet of a bedroom. A cramped bed shoved into the corner of the room. Blankets covering every bare inch of the room. Walls lined with textbooks and piles of clothes. Two adults, hardly out of their teens, spread over one another as a storm rages on. The taller of the two - hair streaked with light shades of grey, indents on his nose from glasses thrown elsewhere, eyes narrowed, and teeth biting cheeks to hide the smile creeping up on his face. The shorter one - arms thrown over the other’s shoulders, head buried in the crook of his neck, breathing in the slight smell of old books, whispering and laughing and teasing._

_“I love you,” She presses a kiss between his collar and the strikes of lightning outside. The flashes highlight the defined edges of his face as she brings herself closer. “I really do.”_

_There’s a love beyond them, one he’ll never fully admit but he latches onto her words the very same, “You too, Georgie, always.”_

_Light touches, soft kisses, and shared blankets._

_She’ll treasure those moments the most._

 

 

 

Standing outside of his hospital room takes a part of her she never knew she had left to give.

 

 

 

**_Her Jon._ **

 

 

 

_Their break up is as mutual as it is gut-wrenching._

_There is no sudden realization that they weren’t built to last, no falling out, nothing._

_Georgie Baker has and will always love Jonathan Sims._

_Jonathan Sims has and will always love Georgie Baker._

_It’s those two statements that will always ring true for them both as they spend their last night together as a couple. The breakup occurs over a take-away pizza and some Hungarian desserts, a couple of drinks, some quiet talks under blanket after blanket, and a kiss that leaves them laying side by side on the floor staring up at the ceiling._

_“So, the Magnus Institute, huh?” Georgie asks because between the food and Jon’s head on her stomach, there isn’t much left to say. “I thought you hated that place. What was it again? Too many ghost stories without a shred of truth to them? A mockery of scientific investigation? An Institution which preys upon the emotionally vulnerable?”_

_He’s silent for a minute too long. “It pays well.”_

_“And you’re going into research?”_

_“Who else would take me?”_

_The remark is bitter as he lifts his head to look at her. Georgie can only half-wonder if he’s memorizing the faint glow of the nightlight across her features. If he’s taking in the familiarity of her hands weaving through his hair, braiding some pieces while running through others. If he’s looking for one last kiss, one last hug, one last moment where they are one and the same._

_“I have questions, Georgie.” He admits as an afterthought. “I need answers.”_

_Georgie thinks back to her first year of University, to Alex, towards her gap year._

_She also thinks back to the first time she sees Jon flinch when someone knocks on the apartment door a little too loudly. The way he stiffens whenever he’s convinced there’s a spider on him, the look of pure fear when he sees an actual one, and the way he goes silent around October when plastic spiders decorate the streets and cobwebs hang from every street corner. She thinks back on the nightmares._

_“Okay,” She mouthes as the night turns into morning and Jon’s long fell asleep with his head buried in the crook of her neck and shoulder blades, one arm across her stomach, and a hand gently holding hers. “Okay.”_

 

 

 

Going inside is hardly any better.

 

 

 

**_Always hers._ **

 

 

 

_When Jon arrives outside of her new apartment door years later, disarranged and smelling of cigarette smoke, she lets him in without a word. The near-silent knocking on her door had barely grabbed her attention as she finished recording her podcast, but she felt it, somehow. The sudden urge to check the door was enough._

_“I’m sorry,” He manages to voice several hours later. The water has nearly dried from his hair and Georgie sits besides him on the couch. A blanket dangles off his shoulders and the Admiral is there, sprawled against his lap, purring under the constant petting that she knows Jon is doing unconsciously. His eyes are bloodshot and staring beyond her. His frame is tinier than she remembers and when she brought out old clothing she kept of his to wear, something breaks further inside her as it hangs loosely. There’s a muted look about him and she has to strain her ears to hear him speak. “I’m so sorry, Georgie.”_

_“Enough of that,” She leans against his bony shoulder, biting her lip as he flinches away from her touch. It hurts, digs into her, and idly does she wonder if this was what her mother suffered through when she was gone. “Jon, please.”_

_She stomps down the thought._

_She stands up, moving in front of him slowly, and bends down on her knees. His eyes are utterly lost, fixated on every movement, but there’s no thought towards them. He sees her but that’s it. She gingerly grabs his hands and winces at the coldness of his skin._

_“Jon,” Georgie tries again. Rubs her thumbs across his hands, pulls him into a hug, buries her head into his chest, begs, pleads, asks. “Jon, it’s okay.”_

_He doesn’t cry._

_And when she wakes up, with him laying across the couch and holding her so delicately in his arms, she’ll wipe the tears from his cheeks and pretend that she doesn’t know that look._

_She’ll pretend and pull him closer._

 

 

 

Georgie sits alone in an empty hospital room.

The room itself is rather small, square, and has pristine walls made of solid concrete painted white which she runs her fingers across as she enters the room. The doctors and nurses do not follow her, they close the door softly behind, and out of respect she ignores the way they bicker under their breaths about how long they can call a corpse a patient. There’s three plastic chairs near the window and she pauses, staring out into the night sky and opening the blinds as an afterthought. Machines fill every other open space and the low hum of beeps and buzzes allow the static in her mind to feel almost normal. The plastic chair she sits on is uncomfortable and when she pulls it closer to his bedside, she stiffens at the terrible shriek of plastic against tile it makes with every inch its forced closer. Her eyes wander across the room to the clipboard hanging with every fancy medical term except the word ‘dead’ scribbled onto its papers and she blinks.

 

_(Hair underneath her fingertips, a soft kiss to the forehead, gentle touches, warm tea, blankets, 3am ceiling talks, a nightlight)_

 

Night turns to morning and morning to noon as light drifts into the room.

Georgie Baker sits alone in an empty hospital room.

In the center of that lonely, empty, pathetic hospital room is a corpse with Jon’s face.

 

_(I love you, always you, I have questions, I need answers, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Georgie, please, I love you, always)_

 

Georgie Baker makes a choice that day in the cramped hospital room with too bright of lights and constricting corridors.

She makes it as she rises from her seat, fingers itching to run themselves through his hair, eyes tearing up, breathing becoming choppy.

When someone dies, they stay dead.

 

_(Jonathan, Jonathan, Hey Jon, Kiss me, I love you, the Magnus Archives, huh, Jon, Jon, it’s okay, I love you, I’ll always love you)_

 

And six months later, when the corpse with his face blinks awake and reaches for her, arm outreached and eyes pleading in the way that shatters her heart?

Georgie takes a step back.

When someone dies, they stay dead.

 

_(I love you, always, I’m sorry, always, I love you, always)_

 

Georgie Baker turns on her heel and leaves the hospital without another word.

She does not look back.

 

_(I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry)_

 

_(Always)_

 


	2. Deny this reality oh you sweet optimistic heart of mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An empty hospital room leaves room for statements but rarely any good comes from that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The second stage of grief out of seven]
> 
>  
> 
> Martin Blackwood - Denial

_[Click]_

 

_[Papers shuffling. A door opens and shuts. Chairs are pulled back]_

 

_[Greetings are terse and soft-spoken]_

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Do you, uh, do you mind if I record this?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Go ahead, mate. Isn’t much else you people can take from me, now is there?

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

…

Yes, well, uh no actually. No, I don’t think there is.

 

_[Pause. Loud shifting of clothing]_

 

Oh, it’s already recording? That’s…I must’ve hit it on already. Muscle reflex.

Okay, statement of…?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Rodriguez, Daniel Rodriguez. I’m the head charge nurse over at the hospital down yonder. We’ve met. Multiple times now.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Oh, oh! Sorry, I am so sorry, I should’ve—

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Hey, no offense taken.

Between you and me and uh, that recorder of yours, people in mourning aren’t as observant as they’d wish to be. Or, are observant in the wrong ways. You aren’t the first to forget me and trust when I say that you won’t be the last. It’s sad, but needed. I would hate it if you’d recognize me in the store or some nearby cafe as that guy who delivered bad news or said the wrong thing at the wrong time when trying to comfort.

Being forgotten in this business is necessary. I prefer it, honest.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Still, it’s impolite.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Ha, most things. Most things are. Doesn’t lessen the truth of them. Not a bit.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Right.

 

_[Another pause. Sharp inhale. Deep exhale. Hesitance]_

 

Right, well, statement of Daniel Rodriguez, the head charge nurse, over…what exactly?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Not sure. Seeing things? Ghosts? Flickers?

Yeah, seeing strange flickers in patient room 207.

 

_[Awkward pause, quieter]_

 

Do I begin now?

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

One second.

Statement recorded by Martin Blackwood, the uh, the temporary head archivist of the Magnus Institute. Taken straight from source. The date is uh, ha, I’m not sure? Doesn’t matter.

Any time you’re ready?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Ready, yeah.

For starters, we have a name for this place, you know? The Magnus Institute, an academic institution dedicated to researching the what again?

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

The esoteric and the paranormal, I believe.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Right, well, you’ve got to be kidding yourself there mate.

 

_[Laughter, short and choppy]_

 

The Magnus Institute is a grand ole name to call this rotten, forsaken plot of land. All of us down from the janitors to the patient care techs to us fellow nurses and doctors, we all know what this place really is. You lot tend to forget that, don’t you? That whenever something so strange happens, we’re on call for it. Without survivors, you wouldn’t be getting these dandy little statements, now would you? We are the ones wheeling in oddities and monstrosities and slapping on false diagnosis and treatments onto clipboards, hoping not to see those…things in the morning.

But we do, we always do.

Ask any patient care tech within our hospital walls, say that bloody title you’ve created for this place, and watch their face crumble. Like I said, we have a name for this place and that title is far from any grace we’ve deemed worthy to give. Hellhole is a classic, limbo is the newest, but I think I’m rather fond of Pandora’s Box. Just wish I could dissect the person responsible for opening it.

I’m getting off track, aren’t I?

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

A bit, yes.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Right.

Whatever name you call it, we all know this place without ever stepping inside. I wonder if I’m the first to breach these walls though I think not. No matter how people pick at your style of academics, we all come running eventually. It just takes the right nudge forward and then, well, here we are. Sitting across from a face that might be engraved in our heads later at night when we try to justify what’s been said and left unsaid.

Pandora’s Box, alright.

So, here I am, being the idiot and opening it for myself. 

 

_[A chair squeak, a sigh]_

 

You know what room 207 houses, yeah?

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

I know _who_ it houses.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Apologies.

You know _who_ patient room number 207 houses, yes, and I’m certain you know why. I won’t pry into the situation that led a mister Jonathan Sims into our care but I will say, whatever situation he was in should’ve killed him when it had the chance.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Ex-Excuse me? How **_dare_** you. That isn’t something you should even think to say, _how_ —

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

_[Louder, interrupting]_

 

I know.

 

_[Harsh breathing lessens. A squeak of a chair. A whispered, I know]_

 

I’m sorry, honest.

And while that sounded awful, especially since I am - _was_ \- in charge of his care, you need to let me explain.

Please?

 

_[A huff of air]_

 

Thank you.

The night that Jonathan Sims entered our care was a hectic one, to put it mildly. A blown-up museum was far from what I expected towards the end of a 48 hour shift. Granted, it’s always the end of a shift that gets so uncomfortably busy. Bad luck and while I was tired and worn down from the typical shift filled with car accident patients, suicide survivors, and the occasional domestic spat - a blown-up museum was far beyond expectations and I was awake within the moment the news struck. Thoughts running rampant in my head, the usual whys and hows and now whats, all of which I had few answers for.

The ambulance rolled in that morning around 2am I believe and we began by quickly unloading the survivors. Eh two, there were two survivors. The first we unloaded and the more urgent one was a mister Jonathan Sims who, to what I could see, was covered in burns upon scratches upon scars. The scars I assume now occurred prior to the explosion itself but I was unaware of that at the time. There was no pulse to be found and by the stillness of his chest, I thought we were headed towards the morgue. However, one of the paramedics on staff was swearing up and down that she’d witness the man without a pulse moving and when I said that sometimes the body convulses after death due to trapped gases being forcibly exhaled, _she_ … Well, she had the oddest expression on when I said that. Her head shook to the side so slowly and she continued CPR as the gurney was brought down to the ground and wheeled in. I always think back to her expression that night. What I said wasn’t out of place and by twenty years of experience, I know a dead body when I see one. Jonathan Sims was dead. And yet, they wheeled him in with her pressing her hands flat against the chest and counting so confidently that it almost took my attention away from the fact that her hands weren’t moving. They were flat against the dead man’s chest as she counted, “One, two, three, four, five,” and so on.

Looking back on it now, I never got that paramedic’s name.

But at the time, I shrugged it off and went straight for the second survivor. The _actual_ survivor, if you will. A Basira Hussain who was carefully monitored as she stepped off the ambulance platform and into our care. Mild second-degree burns covered the back of her arms, and her clothing was singed in places however nothing fatal or really worrying; the luckiest one of that night by far. The concern I found while dressing her wounds and attempting to get her to focus on me was her mental state. She wouldn’t stop talking to herself. Kept repeating her name and while at first I assumed it was shock settling in, the disconnect between herself as an individual and herself as a concept was unnerving to listen to. I had… I had to leave the room at one point. It’s embarrassing thinking back on that now. You have to understand that it felt **wrong** hearing someone speak like that. It felt, well, it felt like static in my veins while she continuously whispered her name and looked to us with glossy eyes, her head tilted to the side almost unnaturally, as she repeated it again and again and again. I tried nodding, tried saying her own name back, and each time the static grew louder and louder and — I asked for her to be sedated. Then and there, turned to a colleague and said that she needed to be sedated, and there was no hesitation in sliding that needle into her neck and watching as her eyes drooped and pulse slowed. She was unconscious fast and I enjoyed the silence that came from it.

The static didn’t fade though.

By the time I left Miss Hussain in the hands of one of my patient care techs, uh, a Miss Elizabeth Dulayne, I was ushered into patient room number 207 and told that I would need to wait for the emergency contact to arrive, then explain the situation. Not too unusual except for the fact that the patient was dead, not alive, and I was not the one to deliver bad news. So I asked, “What situation is that exactly?” The look I received is one typically reserved for interns and the more annoying staff members so you can imagine my surprise to be on the receiving end. I was handed a clipboard that was filled with literally every known medical term that _meant_ the patient was dead except for the word itself. Again, I was told to wait for the emergency contact to arrive and then explain the situation.

It didn’t take very long for the emergency contact - Miss Georgie Baker, I believe - to arrive though I was thoroughly unprepared for her…given reaction. Now I’m not going to judge her in the slightest. We all have our ways of handling situations but few of us can handle the day our world ends and judging by how she reacted, I think her world did end a bit that day. We had to sedate her. Nothing as strong as given to Miss Hussain but enough to stop her from tearing her own throat out. I don’t think she recognized that she was having a panic attack but believe me, you know the signs when you see one. I sat her down with help from one of the other nurses and after a few minutes learned that she was the emergency contact I was waiting for. I quickly separated her from anyone else, asked if there were any known family members she could contact, and when she told me that she was the only one, I stopped.

 

_[Voice drawls off, leaving the room silent for several minutes]_

 

It’s difficult sometimes.

We always like to picture ourselves as the unsung heroes. Not the medical heroes known as doctors and surgeons who save the day but as tired and worn down nurses who keep the hospital in line, always. We work long shifts, we handle paperwork to patients to family, and we don’t get enough credit for what we do and what we see. That isn’t me trying to bargain for recognition, it’s…

People don’t understand how difficult it is to look someone in the eyes when their world is clearly falling apart and be responsible for making it worse.

I led Miss Baker to his room and allowed her some quiet. Scolded a few of the remaining doctors around his room for speaking so loudly. And then I ended my shift not knowing if I would sleep that morning.

A few days later, I was back in my scrubs with a fresher mind and lingering guilt when I did my rounds to see that room 207 still held his body. I was livid those first few days, imploring that he needed to be declared properly dead and put into the morgue with all the others. I remember shouting about how inhumane it was to pretend that someone without a heart beat could miraculously bounce back, that someone whose mind might be showing electrical impulses did not imply someone who was alive, that every day we continued to pretend that Jonathan Sims was indeed alive and capable of recovery was another day we would lie to people desperately clinging onto that false hope. I argued for **_weeks_**. But no one listened to me. Twenty years of experience and I was brushed aside like it was my first day on the job. I-I couldn’t believe it.

 

_[Voice cracks, silence]_

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

…

When did you first notice the flickers in room 207?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Couldn’t tell you the date even if I tried.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Can you? Try, that is.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

_[A minute passes]_

 

I remember the first day I saw the flickers.

Listen, I know that’s a weird way to phrase it but the word ghost doesn’t really fit. When I think of the word ghost, I think of an actual apparition. Some pale, translucent figure who probably died tragically that haunts every place it can, something you can make stories out of and laugh it until nightfall. I think of something horrific and active. What I saw, well, it wasn’t like that all the time. It would’ve been around the one month mark into Jonathan Sims’ care. I was in the middle of my noon rounds and noticed that Miss Georgie Baker was visiting in his room. You could always tell when she was there - the blinds would be open all the way, a blanket would be tossed over his sterile sheets, and there would be this old-fashioned radio playing an instrumental of some classic song. I can’t tell you how many times I caught myself humming its tune but never as sweetly as she did. ‘Course, she was off-key most of the time.

 

_[A single laugh, a sigh, the sound of a paper flipping]_

 

She wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary, I don’t think. I had learned throughout simple meetings with her that while there was always music and humming and ample amounts of sunshine, she would never once reach out towards him. That’s pretty uncommon to see in my line of work - most times I have to constantly remind visitors to restrain themselves from touching and prodding patients because while they might see it as friendly gestures, it isn’t always taken that way. However, Miss Baker seemed rather detached and I never breathed a word of the visitor policy. Again, I don’t judge her for that. People grieve in various ways and I will not be the first to say there’s a right way to handle loss. There simply isn’t.

That day was somehow different from her other visits. Miss Baker was in his room, alone as one visitor is allowed per stay, and the music was rightfully playing. I had finished checking on the patient in room 206, a lovely older woman who managed to break a hip while dancing and was resting from surgery, when I first noticed the second voice. The door to room 207 was cracked the tiniest bit and from that I could hear Miss Baker’s smooth voice and another one. The second voice was lower, rough from either misuse or no previous use at all, and it seemed to follow her lead as it hesitantly hummed along. I stopped midway to the door and instead carefully positioned myself in front of the hospital window that peered into the room. I could see Miss Baker sitting on one of the plastic chairs with a blanket sprawled across her lap that matched the other across the hospital bed. She was leaning against her hand, staring outside at the sunlight, and humming to herself. I didn’t see anyone else in that room, not then, and I wondered for a split second if she had brought another visitor in. Granted, she had never broke the clear set of regulations I provided her that first time and was a prime example of a good hospital visitor, so I wasn’t exactly annoyed at the thought. We all break regulations eventually and I was about to walk in to ask where she was hiding the other person when a different thought crossed my mind.

Was he awake?

Impossible, I know, because the man lying in that bed was dead. Still, I gave another glance through the window and yeah, Jonathan Sims was lying there covered in a purple blanket with the words _What the Ghost_ stitched gingerly into it, dead. The noise he was capable of producing was the forced mechanical heartbeat that the machines played out for him, nothing more or less.

The humming continued, nevertheless, and it became to grow louder. The roughness being shed away as it became more confident and my ears no longer strained to hear it. It was a lovely, if a bit bitter, voice to listen to but regulations are regulations so I walked in.

The humming immediately stopped.

Miss Baker turned to me and kindly asked if she was playing the music too loud and I waved my hand, saying that wasn’t the problem. She looked confused and it was then that I noticed her mascara running and the redness to her eyes and nose and yeah, I apologized and said that I was doing rounds and that I hadn’t meant to disturb her. She gave a little laugh and said there wasn’t much of a disturbance, that she had gotten lost in the music and memories, and I didn’t push her to speak. I’ve worked in this hospital for twenty years. I know that silence can be the nicest gesture to give when someone has lost so much and I stood there, listening as she spoke. Apparently, the song was something of a shared past-time between them during University days - something he would hum while they were studying, always a note lower than what it should’ve been. That was the first time I’d seen her smile and so I told her that she was free to listen to it and that I would try harder not to interrupt her again. A quiet thank you and I was on my way back to rounds. Contrary to all belief, I’m not one to purposefully ruin someone else’s day. Miss Baker was a delight to have and she by far did not deserve to be asked the question that rooted itself in the back of my mind - what exactly did he sound like? I checked on the patient in room 208, a man who managed to shred parts of his hand in, what he so painstakingly corrected us as, a fight with a shredder, and I kept the humming to myself. Maybe I was hearing things, sleep-deprived, or frankly too annoyed with patient 207’s situation to handle it right. I shoved away any further thoughts concerning the incident and went on with my shift.

Then it happened again.

During a different visitor’s stay this time. Miss Hussain, who had left our care within days of being admitted, was visiting and while she kept her visits brief and to the point, this one was taking much longer than I would’ve anticipated. When I’m making my rounds, I do try not to interrupt visits. It’s rude and often times will remind the visitor of just how badly the situation they’re dealing with is. That being said, I had skipped room 207 to finish all of the other checkups on that floor and that’s a good thirty minutes or so. Forty-five if I stall. Miss Hussain’s visits lasted normally five to ten minutes, fifteen being by far the longest, and yet she was still there when I returned. I stood outside the window, hiding just enough so that I wouldn’t be in view, and I looked inside. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and saying something along the lines of how he needed to get better and that there was work to be done and she needed help. Odd things to say to a dead man but granted, no judgement. We tell people that when you’re speaking to someone in a coma, whether induced or not, that they can hear you. That your words comfort them and become anchors to the real world. I’m not quite sure what weight words carry to a man without a heartbeat but Miss Hussain seemed to believe hers carried a hell of a lot of weight. That said, I don’t remember how I reacted when I saw the figure sitting besides her.

He was a tall and lanky man, scarred olive skin, and had grey hairs curled behind his ears. He was wearing a hospital gown and seemed to, well, seemed to flicker in and out of my vision. It hurt, you know? Looking at him dead on seemed to burn and I had to blink back tears as I forced myself to see him in my peripheral instead. As Miss Hussain continued to rattle off grievances, the man continued to sit hunched in over himself. His head was cradled in his hands and while I never once saw him look up or even move to speak, I could’ve sworn he was nodding at her words. His mouth didn’t move and I’m certain she didn’t hear his voice, but I knew in that moment what he wanted to say.

 

**_“I know. I know. Trust me, I know.”_ **

 

_[The tape recorder stutters, static encases the words, and its gone within a moment]_

 

I walked in the room immediately that time, swung open the door, and ignored the slight flinch that came from Miss Hussain as I turned to look at the hospital bed. There he was, the same man, lying ever so still with no sign of life. The noise he made in response was through the steady and monotoned beep of the countless machines dedicated to pumping his blood and forcing air into his lungs. I tried to rationalize it as I then turned toward the plastic chair only to see it empty. Miss Hussain was saying something to me but I couldn’t hear it over my own voice, booming, as if she had seen him. Who? I said him, the patient, Jonathan Sims, who the hell else? There was no one else in the room and she gave me a look of mute pity as she left, brushing past me and saying that I needed sleep, and maybe she was right. I must’ve looked a mess when I came in, bursting with unorthodox energy, with tears in my eyes. That was the end of me ever seeing her again in that hospital room. I know she’s come back since then, had multiple other visits, but always when I was off-shift. I don’t know which staff member told her my schedule but I don’t blame her. Honest, I cannot blame her for avoiding me. That must’ve been some epic breach of composure and I am forever thankful that she did not mention the episode to my boss. I did check the room however. From top to bottom, searching for any sign that he had sat there. Alive and responding. There was none, naturally.

A few days passed, shifts started and ended and began again, and I found myself watching as a Miss Melanie King left the room huffing and puffing. That was also expected behavior as I have rarely met a person so filled with anger - both hot and cold. I hadn’t spoke much with her and I am glad to say that the times I had could be counted on one hand. Still, I found myself watching as she left the room with the door wide open. The times I did speak with her were often about how she needed to calmly shut the door behind her to which she would respond with a leveled glare. Expected behavior, as I said. The unexpected angle came from the hand twisting out from the open door. I don’t know if it was just a hand and outstretched arm or if it was him in all entirety but I do know it was him. His hand was mangled by some sort of wax or oil burn, an old injury I had noticed in the first few days of handling his checkups, and the hand jutting out from the doorway held the same grotesque distortion of the flesh. It reached out quickly as if to grab her shoulder and a warning bubbled in my throat but before I could shout, the hand dropped.

 

**_“Please, listen.”_ **

 

_[Again, static, rising and falling within the same breath]_

 

I do not know who said those words but they hit me all at once as the hand crept back inside the room. I was quick on my feet, darting over to the room, and as I stood in that doorway, there was nothing but the corpse and its machinery. I wanted to scream in frustration but at what? Empty air? It was an empty hospital room, what was there to be angry over? I did my checkup, marked down the same testing statistics as always, and left.

The next few times were equally frustrating. Sometimes a visit wasn’t mandatory to prompt his appearance. I would be changing his sheet out just to see out of the corner of my eye, his watchful self. Sometimes it was a full flicker, other times a voice, and most times gone the moment I tried anything. There were days where I would pass by that damn hospital room and see him, full bodied, screaming at something that wasn’t there. As if another layer of something I wasn’t yet aware of. Names would pop into my head and I would have to scrub them away with careful measures.

 

**_“Tim! Sasha! Daisy! Elias! Melanie! Georgie! Basira! Lukas!”_ **

 

_[Static, there’s a angrier edge to his voice, static and a shrieking undertone]_

 

I don’t even know half of those names! And yet, constantly, I would have to erase them from my mind one by one only for them to be there by the next round. Sometimes I would close the door and whisper for him to stop, beg him to be quiet, and he would disappear all over again. But those names? They never left me. I could hear them on repeat during my shifts, could feel them as I handled stitches and spoke to grieving families, they haunted me. If it wasn’t names, it would be that knocking noise. Three knocks in rapid succession against a concrete wall without any real meaning. Repetitively. Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock. Then, a new name. I couldn’t hear it very well and I think it was distorted almost, uh, something similar to Ellen? I couldn’t tell but the knocking was so loud that it rattled me inside. I would go home to hear it on my own door but if I’m honest, I wasn’t sure if it there was knocking on my door. I didn’t remember having that door there and so I ignored it. But it was so loud I could hardly think or sleep. I don’t think I slept much at that point.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

I see.

 

_[A shuddering breath]_

 

Uh, can I ask you something?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

I mean, you can. Whatever helps, I suppose.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

It’s just, when you listed out those names, I was wondering. And we’ve met several times and I’ve visited several times so, I’m curious to know, if by any means… was there? Anything?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Was there anything while you visited?

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

_[Quietly, near silent]_

 

Yeah.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

[ _A deep, almost hysterical laugh]_

 

Of fuckin’ course. You were, oh you were, ha haha. Oh you were the absolute worst. The nightmare scenario that presented itself every time you stepped into the godforsaken room. I wouldn’t be able to do anything against it. I tried asking for you to be restricted from visiting, I begged for it. Nearly went straight up to you to punch you.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

What—

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Oh, don’t you dare interrupt me. Not now.

Do you know what it’s like to feel someone sink their claws into your mind and scrap away every good memory you have? Do you know what it feels like to have needles prodded in your skin with every breath? Do you know how it feels to have someone screaming so loudly in your head that your ears begin to bleed and your vision turns a scarlet red? Do you know, Martin?

Of course not. If you did, you would have stopped visiting. I watched every single visit you had in that room, even if I was supposed to be resting at home. I would feel this tug on my mind and I would wander until I was outside room 207’s hospital window, observing. You weren’t a bad visitor, not by normal means, and I did have to tell you once or twice to go home and shower, sleep a little, but that happens. What shouldn’t had happened was those statements you kept bringing in. I’m not an idiot. I have twenty years under my belt and I learn quick through experience. With Miss Baker, I expected humming. With Miss Hussain, quiet agreements. With Miss King, apologies. But with you, mister Blackwood, there was screaming. Not angry screaming, no rage or bitterness, just endless screaming. A sort of scream that rips apart the vocal chords and leaves behind nothing but congealed blood and mucus. I would stand and watch with blood trickling down my ears as you sat, carefree, while he screamed.

Sometimes, there would be words.

 

**_“Please, Martin, you need to listen to me.”_ **

 

**_“Come on, damnit Martin, I don’t have a lot of time.”_ **

 

**_“You’re the only one, you can do this, just listen to me!”_ **

 

**_“Martin, I’m scared, I’m trapped, please, I’m sorry, Martin!”_ **

 

_[Static spikes. There’s crying, it’s unsure from who]_

 

**_“Please, just let me die.”_ **

 

I wanted to cry. I could feel tears in my eyes but when I would wipe them away and pull back my hand, there was always red. You never noticed though, did you? It was worse when you read those statements, you were adding to his pain. You thought you were helping but I watched as his flickering form would twist and contort and convulse under every word you spoke and when his screams finally ceased - you would smile. Tap the corpse on the leg. Say that you’ll see him tomorrow. You would then walk out and never once see me or the blood dripping off my face.

… Oh, don’t start crying now. I’m not done with my statement.

Now, I am not a strong man. I am stubborn and when I make up my mind there is little one can do to stop me. I could mention my childhood and how I fought my way up to becoming a head charge nurse. I could explain in intricate detail how I left sleep behind to study endless nights and how I slept in my car for my first two years of residency until I could afford the best of the best, I could do so much. But here’s what you need to know, Martin.

I am not a strong man but I have lifted bloodied and torn corpses off of gurneys without breaking a sweat. I have done things you and this demented institute would never dream of. I have seen and heard so much more than you’ll ever experience and when one night, after you went on your jolly little way, I decided that if you wouldn’t listen - I would. It made so much sense. You and your friends couldn’t hear the corpse but I heard him loud and clear. I waited until you left, slide the door shut behind me, and sat. It didn’t take him long to appear. He seemed to be getting the hang of it as he appear in all his glory - torn clothes, holes wormed through the skin, melting flesh that filled the room with a sickly heat, and the strangest smell of ozone. His throat was cut and bleeding and when I looked into his eyes I saw everything. I’ve always wondered what someone in a coma dreams about and now? I know what the dead man sees. I have seen his fear and so many others and I understood.

 

 ** _“I’m tired,”_** He confessed to me though his lips didn’t move. **_“I’m trapped and afraid and unsure of what I am. Can you help me?”_**

 

“Yes,” I whispered back, giddy almost. There was a strange smile on his face, like a stranger had tried to mimic it and accidentally shifted it to the right two centimeters, but I bared my teeth back. “Yes, I’ll help you.”

 

It’s laughable how easily one can pull a plug.

But pulling several? That’s _cathartic_. I don’t remember when the hospital room door slammed open nor I do remember the shouting of my fellow peers as they attempted to restrain me. All I could hear was that low humming of old music to which I hummed along with. There was a steady hand on my shoulder, fingers bent and broken, and oh so helpful as I pulled plug after plug after plug. His voice was in my head, begging for me to end it, and I was almost there. I had managed to unplug almost everything in that room. There was one final plug to some stupid machine meant to circulate his blood flow and I was right there, fingertips brushing against the cool plastic, when someone managed to shove a sedative into my neck and yank me back. I screamed, let out that horrid sound of death and despair and fear, and while I don’t remember much between the hands around my throat and the nurses calling my name, I do remember that scream.

Was it mine?

No, no, I don’t think I could ever make that awful sound. It’s hard to describe really but I like to imagine its the last sound you’ll ever hear before dying. The sound of an observer who has seen countless deaths and will see his own soon, if he were lucky. When my eyes closed and my body sagged against whoever was holding me, my last thought was that this was it. I was dying and for some reason, that brought the biggest smile on my face. I was so happy, so overjoyed at the thought of finally dying, that I didn’t fight against the sedative any longer. I didn’t die though. Woke up to being restrained by cloth binds and was told politely by my boss that I would no longer oversee the patient in room 207. That despite my best efforts he was still alive. I was then given three weeks off of paid-leave and cheerfully told that they would be glad to see me when I was better. Funny, they hadn’t managed to wipe away the blood that stained their ears. I spent that first week desperately trying to break into the hospital but they were aware and were quick to sedate and restrain me. It’s been two weeks since the initial attempt and this morning, I blinked and found myself standing here. In the doorway of Pandora’s Box.

 

_[Silence]_

 

_[A rustle of papers]_

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

_[Voice is muffled, disheartened, and in most areas broken]_

 

O-Okay, I see. Is that. Is that it?

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Yeah, that would be it.

Listen, I know that, well, I understand that, well, no, actually I don’t. I don’t understand anything that happened and while I do feel guilty and wrong and all types of ways fucked up, I do know that whatever that _thing_ is in room 207 that you and the rest of your friends are so patiently waiting for to wake up - it doesn’t want to.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

…

He isn’t a thing. His name is Jon.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

Fine, then Jon doesn’t want to wake up. It wants to die. And maybe I didn’t succeed but you? You need to. You need to let it die, it begged you to and this time you can’t ignore it. It is not your friend. It is nothing but wasted space filled with endless visions of death and destruction and ruin and it is so afraid. Jon? Jon is so afraid. So I’m here, begging you, to please pull that plug. They won’t let me back inside, they know what I’ll do, but you can go in.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

No.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

You can kill it. They wouldn’t suspect you. Not you, the sweet guy who brings flowers and reads to him. Not the guy who holds the door open for other people, brings the doctors and nurses food, thanks every person they see on the way out - they won’t stop you! You could kill it.

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

_No._

 

_[Paper aggressively being shuffled, a chair squeaking, a slam of a stamp]_

 

Thank you for your statement, Mister Rodrigues, but I think we should end this here.

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

No, no, no!

You need to listen to me, Martin. I know you heard him, I saw the blood. Martin _listen_ —

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

_[Speaking over him, loud and empty]_

 

I’m sure you remember your way out of the archives. Follow the hall and take the first left then —

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

_[Static, the scream]_

 

LISTEN TO ME. LET IT DIE! IT WANTS TO DIE! LET IT DIE BEFORE IT TAKES HIM! LET HIM DIE!

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Shit, sir, sir please stop. Put your hands away from your face, shit oh god, Melanie! Basira! _Someone_ —

 

_[Screaming, shouting, a squishing sound, footsteps approaching, a door opening, static increasing]_

 

**DANIEL RODRIGUEZ, HEAD CHARGE NURSE**

 

 _PULL THE PLUG, PLEASE, MARTIN, PLEASE, LET ME DIE, I’M SCARED_ **_PLEASE_ ** _SOMEONE—_

 

 

_[Click]_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_[Click]_

 

_[A strangled cry followed by a shaky inhale, then exhale]_

 

_[Scribbling]_

 

**TEMPORARY HEAD ARCHIVIST**

 

Okay, okay.

You can do this Martin. Think of five objects around the room, four places you’ve never been, three foods you like, two types of spiders, and then there's one you.

Okay, okay I can do this.

Um, further archival notes on — further archival notes on the statement of Daniel Rodriguez, head charge nurse, over Jon.

The recording ends roughly by the time Melanie and Basira, alongside two of the lobby assistants Robert and Dylan, entered the room. They, from a later statement taken by the police, heard me screaming and came running to assist. Between the five of us, it took all five of us to properly restrain Mr. Rodriguez from injuring himself any further. An ambulance was called and he was quickly taken from our care with several apologies from the paramedics, one of which apparently knew him well. I do not have any updates on his condition nor whether they managed to save his vision. I do, however, now know what it looks like to see a man scratch and tear out his own eyes, and I — I don’t. I can’t help but think back to his statement. I’m trying to focus on the facts, the investigation, I really am, but if he’s telling the truth then.

No.

No, I don’t think he is.

 

_[A pause]_

 

I haven’t, uh, I haven’t visited Jon in a few days now. I should, soon.

I haven’t talked to anyone really. Beyond stopping the ritual and landing Elias in jail, there’s been a silence here. It’s wrong though. I — you know, it’s almost funny. The plan, my plan, worked technically. And since my plan worked and the ritual was stopped and Elias was sent to jail for his crimes, that should mean we’re heroes now, right? We saved the world without anyone knowing what would happen to them if we failed, brought down some evil fear entity we generalized as the Stranger, and that should _mean_ something. That should mean peace and victory and a happily ever after but.

But Tim’s dead.

The officers wouldn’t let anyone see him, said that dental records would be enough to identify his body, but they didn’t use the word body. Or corpse, or remains, or just him. No, they said that dental records would be enough to identify what’s left. A-And Daisy? She’s gone, no body, nothing left, just another name added to the list of missing people. The rescue team crawled all over that site and between the rubble of melted wax and the hopefully dead, they found no trace of her. Basira’s fine, but as Mr. Rodriguez says, I still find her coiled in on herself in the tunnels whispering her name over and over again. It doesn’t matter how many times you try to call out to her when she’s like that, she won’t hear you. I don’t know what that night took from her and I don’t want to, not really. Elias is in jail, Melanie hates me because of the fact that Elias is in jail and not in a shallow grave, and now I’m here looking at a blood stained carpet and this statement and I—

I’ve written as much as I can when re-listening to the audio but, it, it _takes_ something from me each time I listen.

And I’ve noticed something.

I do not know what it means but towards the end when Mr. Rodriguez begins to, unravel? There’s something else beyond the static and the sounds of his screaming as he plucks out his own eyes.

There’s…there’s humming.

And it sounds like you, Jon.

I…

I’ll visit, tonight, I just need a second to grab a few statements.

I’ll be there, okay Jon, please just give me a second.

Please, just, please stop humming.

 

 

_[Click]_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wrote over 7,000 words in less than an hour on no sleep so my expectations are low but so are my morals.

**Author's Note:**

> :D


End file.
